


Le Sang des Martyrs Remplit les Ventres de la France

by thegirlwiththefandoms



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grantaire rises to the occasion... finally., M/M, Multi, Zombies, lots of dying, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththefandoms/pseuds/thegirlwiththefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the dead of Paris begin to walk, all thoughts of revolution die as the need for survival becomes the central thought. The Amis turn to an entirely unlikely leader: Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Shadow of a Cynic Bewilders Idealism

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! The beginning chapters of this are short. But I promise that they get longer. It takes a bit for the zombies to appear as well. Bear with it. Enjoy!

Grantaire was always the one at the Musain in the soiled green waistcoat, fingers curled around a bottle of wine and eyes glassy as they took in the meetings. Les Amis D’ABC did not particularly understand him, for he went to the meetings, but only to spout off truly glorious rants and oppositions that rivaled even their fearless leader’s orations. As a matter of fact, if he was not quiet in the corner when Enjolras spoke, he was grumbling allusions and his distaste in human nature. He was entirely skeptical in their causes and he never seemed to have a positive thing to add. It was evident that he was there for a reason, it was just that no one could particularly discern what it was. Whether it was his intention to remain an enigma, or he simply achieved it naturally, was beyond them all.

Combeferre found himself the most fascinated with the drunkard in green, and would constantly scrawl on sheets of paper to Courfeyrac—the jokester of the group, though entirely devoted to it—questions and musings about him. Enjolras, the god among men, the Apollo with nothing but love for his venerated Patria, would take no notice of any of it. His words of passion continued to spur the air as he sparked conversation among les amis. 

It soon became a preoccupation for Combeferre, who was one of Enjolras’ nearest and dearest friends. He had watched the leader’s agitation as he quarreled with the eloquent drunk yet again, growing frustrated and accusing him of existing merely to barb at his side and grate at his nerves. Grantaire had scoffed at this, as he did so much, but had gone uncharacteristically quiet. The meeting, thankfully, passed in this manner, Enjolras calming enough to continue his oration. However, Combeferre heard very little of it. His eyes remained on Grantaire, who drank as heavily as any other meeting, but with far more purpose, his body sprawled in far more casualty than any of the others. His eyes remained broody that night, glued to the red-coated leader. 

It was that day that Combeferre resolved to simply ask Grantaire of his intentions, rather than trying to puzzle them out, himself. So, after the meeting had ended, the would-be doctor got to his feet, excusing himself from his typical walk home with Courfeyrac, and approached the drunk, who grinned at him. 

“One of our esteemed physicians,” the green waist-coated man remarked, tipping the mouth of his bottle to Combeferre. “Come to address me? What for, my mind wonders?” Every word was filled with mirth as the glassy eyes studied Combeferre. 

Now, Combeferre was one of the more serious of Les Amis. When he had an established goal, he would rather get to the point than exchange jests and gripes. So, he sat before Grantaire, eyeing him seriously. “Now, I mean you little offence, Grantaire. But I’ve had on my mind a question of considerable importance to me since your appearance here at the Musain.” 

“I shudder in anticipation,” Grantaire returned, smirking. 

Combeferre rolled his eyes toward heaven, taking a breath. “I wish to know—“ 

“You wish to know why I enforce my presence on your merry assembly,” Grantaire supplied. He raised a brow. “Am I wrong?” 

The would-be doctor nodded, rather surprised that his query had been anticipated. 

“No need to feel abashed in my prediction,” Grantaire replied, sipping deeply from the half-empty bottle of wine—his second, Combeferre believed. “I am not oblivious, if useless and a waste of idealist space. I note the eyes of all of you upon me, inquisitive. Well, all but Apollo’s, who is so engrossed in his causes that he would not notice a fly beneath his marble nose.” 

As he spoke, Combeferre blinked. He still hadn’t answered the question. “You believe in none of our causes,” Combeferre responded. “You serve to agitate Enjolras, and none of us really understand why you choose _this_ place to enforce your presence. Enjolras will not cast you out, as he believes that any support is an asset. But you do not support. You merely oppose and argue. Why?” 

Grantaire considered his reply for a moment, taking a contemplative sip. When he answered, however, his words only served to irritate. “I’ve nowhere better to be.” 

Combeferre was beginning to lose his patience. “There are no other places of business to satisfy your taste for alcohol?” he demanded. 

“For those who argue freedom,” Grantaire countered, “you seem hard-pressed to oppress mine.” 

At these words, Combeferre narrowed his eyes. However, he resigned himself to Grantaire’s decision to be difficult and got to his feet, no more informed than when he’d sat down. With a dismissive sigh, he made his way away from the drunk, who smirked at his retreating back.


	2. Clarity for Les Amis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for clicking onto the next chapter. Still no zombies, yet. Soon.

No one again approached Grantaire on his reasons for attending their meetings. Some, like Bahorel, even served to befriend him. The conversation was good, if sometimes exasperating—the man had a comeback for every word—but it was a general consensus that his humour was good, regardless of cynicism, and soon Grantaire became a fixed enigma, but an enigma nonetheless.

It was not expected that Grantaire had any hobbies apart from those associated with a bar setting. It was common knowledge that he could outdrink any man and outbluff them in cards, but that was really the only persona he had ever shown them. Until the day that a particular meeting had taken a turn for the dull, and Grantaire pulled out a leather bound book of papers and a piece of charcoal as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He was not in the spirit of arguing at the moment, and many of the amis—those who noticed, that is (in other words, not Enjolras)—furrowed their brows in confusion as Grantaire happily scratched charcoal against well concealed pages. 

At the point in the meeting where the amis broke away for discussion, Prouvaire, who was a poet in his own right and interested in all things artistic, moved to Grantaire’s table. “What are you drawing?” he wanted to know, coming to stand at Grantaire’s shoulder. 

The drunk shrugged, setting down the charcoal stick and rubbing his blackened fingers before taking a sip of his wine. The page lay unabashedly in the center of the table, and Prouvaire gasped. It was completely unexpected that the drunk would have any talent, and yet here was the Musain as it was, each of the amis etched in expert shading as they watched Enjolras, who stood in the center. It was then that Prouvaire, at the very least, understood what kept Grantaire coming to meetings. The art itself featured everyone accurately, but Enjolras was somehow elevated, the light source directed to him, the texture of his gentle curls and delicate features rendered by what seemed like a gentle and adoring hand. Prouvaire’s eyes fell upon the drunk, who sipped his wine without embarrassment. 

“This is really good,” he commented to Grantaire, who put the bottle down now as Bahorel leaned over to see the fuss and swallowed, understanding reaching him too. 

“It is a feeble rendering,” Grantaire shrugged, eyeing his own work, “stemming entirely from boredom.” As he said this last, he looked pointedly at Enjolras, who now noticed something was afoot when Joly whispered something to Bossuet, who nodded. 

“Forgive us for denying you adequate entertainment,” Enjolras responded dryly, moving over to the table with Combeferre. Moving gently past his friends, his sculpted face passive, he put a finger to the corner of the book, turning it to take in the image. Everyone watched their leader, wondering if he saw what all the rest of them did, what Grantaire hadn’t noticed was so apparent. And if he did notice, what he would say? Bated breath and a pregnant pause. No one could hear the pounding of Grantaire’s heart as he kept his face blank, eyebrow raised as he awaited Apollo’s opinion. 

“Your efforts would be better suited to political pamphlets,” Enjolras commented. “It would be an honourable contribution.” 

There was almost a collective sigh of disappointment that the potential drama had been avoided. Grantaire blinked, taking the book back as a hand on shoulder from Prouvaire surprised him. He shrugged it off with a scoff. “To adequately illustrate politics, one has to care for politics,” he said plainly to Enjolras. 

Enjolras stared at Grantaire, meeting the smirk with a stern gaze. “Yes, and we are all well aware that you care for nothing but drink and, perhaps, frivolous pictures.” The untruth of his words had the amis exchanging glances. It was very evident that Grantaire cared about something. It was just not a thing which Enjolras would consider, apparently. Thus, when Grantaire’s retort came, the collective watched the serve of a customary match of verbal racquetball with a very different subtext. 

“Of course the shining Apollo has written off a mere mortal, fully understanding at a glance. Quite a feat, my shining god.” 

Enjolras cast his eyes heavenward. “You mock me with words that only succeed in casting you in the role of hypocrisy. Have you not referred previously referred to your apathy? It is a crime to repeat your words to you? Or are they only true when convenient?” 

Grantaire scoffed. “I care not for your causes or your faith in humanity, which will serve only to bite you later. My apathy does not extend to all things, however. As you said, I am quite found of my spirits and sketches.” 

Slapping the page back upon the table, Grantaire signed the bottom corner with a flourished ‘R’ before slapping it, open palmed, against Enjolras chest. “For your political pamphlet, my fearless leader,” he mocked, eyes gleaming. 

Enjolras’ fingers caught the page reflexively, the pale of his skin coming away smudged. “You are impossible,” he snapped. He didn’t quite understand how he had misstepped. It was a sound suggestion, in his own mind. And Grantaire making a tangible contribution to their cause rather than spouting off cynicism might solidify his friends’ opinions of him—Combeferre had commented before. Where had been the harm? And yet, he found himself locking wit with the drunk again. “And yet here I stand,” Grantaire returned with a flourishing bow. 

Enjolras had better things to do than remain in the Musain arguing nothing Grantaire. There were people to represent and a world to change. His efforts were better extended elsewhere. Thus, he turned on his heal, leaving the café with Combeferre close behind, tossing a look to the drunk, who stared at Enjolras’ retreating scarlet back. 

The sketch found its way on Enjolras’ desk that night and was soon buried beneath pages of the Social Contract and other such notes. But still, it was there.


	3. In Which LaMarque Rises Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is!

Months passed, as they generally did, with the amis accepting Grantaire into the fold of their group, however strange his fit within it proved to be. He was a permanent fixture, and eyes which had a new understanding often slid to him during Enjolras’ orations. The veneration on Grantaire’s face coupled with unbridled adoration garnered talk amongst the other amis, the occasional jest, and even some sympathy. The leader, for his part, quarreled with the drunk mercilessly, the two always seeming to oppose each other on something, but he noticed nothing of this other side of Grantaire. Of his desperation to be near his Apollo, of his desire to be the Hephaiston to his Alexander. How could he notice, when he was far too focused on what was greater: Patria?

The death of General Lamarque came as a surprise to all of them. There had been talk of his illness, but such a great war hero could not be felled by something so mundane as sickness. This champion of the people had fallen, and Enjolras saw it as an opportunity to rise. 

“The crown makes an example of LaMarque in an attempt to placate!” Enjolras shouted above the din of the Musain, which was in an uproar at the news. The amis had gathered earlier than their scheduled meeting, everyone in a flurry of sudden nationalism. Even Grantaire remained less aggressively opposed to every word Enjolras said. “They attempt to claim LaMarque as one of their!” 

Pacing angrily, the leader’s eyes blazed, casting him in the role of wrathful god among men. “’ _Patrie_ ’,” Enjolras cried, whirling on his friends. “His final breath, LaMarque champions France! The people are not to be placated! We shall reclaim him in the name of Patria!” 

A resounding cheer sounded through the crowded Musain, which had never been so full before. Wine flowed and planning commenced, and Grantaire sat staring. Never before had there been such a motivation for Enjolras’ passion, and the thickness in the air mingled to warm Grantaire from the inside, his lips parting as he watched Apollo’s eyes blaze. He watched the power of one such as Caesar Augustus fill Enjolras, and Grantaire would be his Agrippa if given the chance. In an attempt to distract himself from the tightening in his abdomen, Grantaire looked around the room, anywhere but at Enjolras. He spied his chance for distraction in the eyes of Marius Pontmercy, one of the less consistent of their members. The young ami looked positively lovesick. And it was a look Grantaire knew well. Leaping to his feet, Grantaire resolved to have a bit of fun. “Marius!” he cried in greeting, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Speak man. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Get this man a drink!” 

Holding out his hand, he was pleased when a bottle was pressed into it. “Has the excitement gone to your head, boy?” Smirking, Grantaire went for a chair, slamming in the ground and attracting the attention of the others, who came, led by a concerned Joly, to Marius’ side. Even Enjolras looked to the boy with interest. Marius took the wine, just a little overwhelmed by the situation. After a long sip of wine, he held out the bottle to Grantaire who accepted it back. “It’s nothing,” he said gently. 

Of course, the amis were now fully concerned with their friend, nearly forgetting the promise of revolution in their haste to aid him if need be. At their urging, a smile came over his face. Just as Grantaire had expected, he spoke true. “I… I saw a girl. The most beautiful mademoiselle I’ve ever lain eyes upon.” Giving an uproarious laugh, Grantaire held up the bottle of wine he held. “Alors! Here we are talking of battle and revolution, and our very own Don Juan hears none of it. Have I mistaken the Musain for L’Opera de Paris?” 

Laughter followed Grantaire’s words as he turned to address the room. “A toast to young love!” he called, taking a vigourous sip of the wine he held. Enjolras, who had been taking in the outburst, interjected now. “We haven’t time for such frivolity,” he said plainly, glaring at Grantaire, whose mirth fell away. “We haven’t time for schoolboys and young love. Is this a game to you? We are on the verge of something which could alter the very life of French society! We could raise a new order to France! She will finally belong to her people, as she should have since the beginning!” 

He leapt onto a chair to command more attention as he spoke, but he could not have found more if he tried. Every eye, save Marius’, was on him. Grantaire’s heart pounded as he heard Marius whispering to someone about his flaming heart and racing pulse, and Grantaire could empathize as Enjolras rallied them. 

“Our lives mean nothing now!” Enjolras cried. “We. Are. For. France!” 

Another devastating cheer threatened to deafen Grantaire as he stared. All faded away as Enjolras stood before him, the adrenaline of his oration leading his hands to shake. As he moved to get down from the chair, Grantaire moved automatically, fingers rising to catch Enjolras’ and steady him. The leader’s head whirled at the touch and he seemed surprised to see Grantaire there, but he did nothing to stop the touch, using it to steady himself. As his foot caught solid ground, Grantaire held his fingers gently, as if he might damage them with too tight a grip. His eyes studied Enjolras’ face, taking in every line and angle as his own hands shook with Enjolras’. The leader stared, confused but accepting after a successful oration. The din of conversation and excited planning filled the air, and few noticed the two as they all spoke their ideas. 

Enjolras waited expectantly, as if he prepared for Grantaire to argue with him. The artist, for his part, could only stare in quiet adoration as he studied the way some of Enjolras’ curls had slipped onto his forehead and framed his face. Moving to speak, he found no sound would come to his lips. As he stared, he realized that his hand still gripped Apollo’s, thumb running over the back of it. Why Apollo had not pulled it away to join the discussion was beyond Grantaire. But he knew that he had to drop the delicate fingers, lest confusion give way to irritation. Thus, he forced his fingers to release, turning wordlessly to retrieve his wine bottle. He’d had enough of good spirits and political dogma. And he had an overwhelming abundance of energy. Thus, knowing he would not be missed, he slipped away. 

*** 

The morning of the funeral procession for General Lamarque was dreary at best, a gray overcast hanging in the sky as if foreshadowing something. As discussed, the amis had all gathered at the Musain, even a bleary-eyed Grantaire, who no one questioned about his disappearance the night before. Enjolras pulsed with adrenaline and excitement, and thus seemed to have forgotten the strange exchange with Grantaire, much to the artist’s relief. 

It threatened rain as the procession first halted at Place Vendome. Soon. Adrenaline shook through all of them as they exchanged looks with each other from across the boulevard. Joly looked nervous, as he always did. Combeferre wore an expression of reserve which foiled nicely with Courfeyrac’s manic excitement. Bossuet was likely praying that he could get through this without getting trampled or anything like that. Prouvaire stood watching for the signal, while Feuilly tugged his hat down over his hair. Bahorel had come to stand with Grantaire, who, unsurprisingly, watched the blaze in Enjolras’ eyes the likes of which he had never seen. Marius stood beside him, dwarfed in comparison to the red-coated leader. This was going to be big. 

As the funeral procession came into view, Grantaire’s heart pounded. Enjolras glanced to each of his friends in turn, and gave a well projected shout of “Long live the Republic!” which was the signal. 

It all seemed to happen at once. Les Amis rushed forward, followed by some of the other zealous students who had caught wind of the plan. Like a shining beacon, Enjolras hoisted himself upon the casket, a flag produced from nowhere bearing the words “Liberte ou la Morte” was handed to him as he stood fast on the casket. Marius and Courfeyrac took their places beside the leader, who led the crowd as the casket of LaMarque was taken off course and led toward the Place de la Bastille, where the first revolutionaries of France had made their preliminary press to freedom. It was there, that everything changed. 

How the casket got upended was not entirely sure. It could have been something like a stray rock, or even an unfortunate beat underfoot. What everyone did know was that the casket went tumbling, tossing the golden haired leader to the ground as wood splintered. Combeferre was at Enjolras’ side nearly the moment that it happened, moving to attempt to lift his newly unconscious friend. 

Grantaire moved like a man possessed to get to Enjolras’ side, but he was halted by the most horrifying sound he had ever had the displeasure of encountering. Silence fell, and heads turned in horror to a waxy man crawling stiffly from the shattered casket. It could only be LaMarque. The unnatural shuffling of the fallen military leader had Grantaire’s blood going cold. Before she had died, Grantaire’s mother had delighted in stories of the supernatural and had read Frankenstein by the Shelley woman to her son. The idea of a walking corpse had always terrified the artist, who had depicted such things in some of his private sketches. His mother had always steadfastly told him that he was safe, that God would never allow such a thing, but now he was greeted by the creatures of his nightmares. 

The dead of LaMarque’s eyes as he shambled toward where the amis stood around Enjolras had Grantaire’s heart pounding. A young woman who had seen the general from afar before and knew his face. For whatever reason, bravery struck her, and she moved forward. “Monsieur LaMarque?” she tried in her lower class accent. 

The touch seemed to awaken some feral darkness in LaMarque, as his waxy hand closed around the woman’s thin forearm and, before their very eyes, sank his teeth into her shoulder. Her shriek seemed to awaken the inevitable panic as some rushed forward to help and others fled. The mob which ensued chilled Grantaire to the bone as some came away from where LaMarque had stood bearing similar teeth marks. Infected. It could not be a good thing to be bitten by what was meant to be dead. Wayward shots began a few minutes into the struggle as people ran. Still, the creature moaned. Looking around, Grantaire spied his friends, all stunned by the turn of events. He ran his way over to the crowd of them, shoving them into action. 

“Don’t stand there agape,” he snarled. “We have to go!” 

Combeferre, who knelt beside Enjolras, shook his head vehemently. “We cannot move him before we are certain that it’s—“ 

Cutting him off, Grantaire bent to Enjolras, tugging the taller man up into his arms with ease—did the leader never eat? “He’ll be far safer anywhere else but here,” he snapped. “If that beast is what I believe it to be. We need to go _now_. Whatever you do, don’t get bitten. The Musain. Get to the Musain.” 

Pleased that his friends had finally listened to his rantings—for Grantaire had never been more serious in his life, the artist, whose core was strong from his athletic endeavours, carried Enjolras away as quickly as he could manage. In his arms, Enjolras whimpered something about the Patria, and Grantaire could not help but scoff. Even in mortal danger, all their leader could consider was France. 

And thusly, as the Amis escaped the area, the plague began.


	4. At the Musain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're still here? I love you!

When Grantaire burst through the doors of the Musain with Enjolras, he was followed closely by Courfeyrac. The others had fallen behind, none having realized how athletic Grantaire was, even when laden with their stirring leader. Moving across the floor, Grantaire cleared a table of its candles and other contents in one fell swoop, his green waistcoat coming off to pillow Apollo’s golden head as Combeferre and Bahorel made it through the door, followed by Feuilly and Joly. Bossuet limped in after them, headed at the rear by Prouvaire.

“What in God’s name is going on?” someone cried. Prouvaire by the high-pitched edge to it. Grantaire was pushed to Enjolras’ head as Combeferre and Joly set to searching him over. Their gently prodding fingers seemed to stir the leader, who came to surrounded by concerned and hysterical faces. Grantaire felt his heart stutter in relief as the blue eyes blazed and Enjolras sat up. “What happened? LaMarque? The revolution?” 

“A monstrous beast!” came a female cry from the door, causing heads to turn. A filthy gambine that Grantaire recognized—she frequently trailed Marius—came running into the Musain. “Marius?” she called, searching around. “Is Marius with you? Did you see LaMarque?” She spoke quickly, her voice on edge as her chest heaved from exertion. “An evil creature. Where is Marius?” 

Enjolras blinked in confusion, his thin fingers flying to his brow. More frantic calls for Pontmercy yielded the knowledge that he was not among them. Where was he? 

Bahorel spoke up plainly. “I saw him go pale and run in the opposite direction on Rue de Moufftard,”he explained. 

“Why would he go there?” Jehan demanded. “What if something happens to him?” 

“Rue de Moufftard?” the girl asked, her filthy face going pale beneath the grime. “He’s going to get her.” 

“Her?” Bossuet, who was rubbing his ankle and wincing, repeated. 

Nodding, the gambine pressed a hand to her stomach. Before she could speak, Grantaire understood. “The woman over whom he was waxing poetic the other night,” he said plainly. Though it was foolish to leave the group, Grantaire could understand. If he had been unsure of Enjolras’ whereabouts, they would have gone nowhere until he was found. 

“The fool!” cried Courfeyrac. “Did he not see the chaos?” 

“I’m sure he saw it,” Combeferre murmured calmly, still prodding at Enjolras. 

The leader, for his part, had not spoken, taking in the situation in silence. His mind raced, his mouth opening and closing as he attempted to make sense of what was being said. Grantaire noted his confusion as he finally managed to get his voice to work. “LaMarque? Where is the casket? I can’t remember.” 

The group went quiet now, all looking to each other, unsure of how to explain what they had seen to their leader. Grantaire gave an exasperated sigh. “He rose, Apollo,” he explained, coming to take Joly’s place while Combeferre dabbed at a shallow cut on the leader’s temple. “The casket upended and you fell. And then a beast wearing LaMarque’s face crawled from the casket with nothing in its eyes but death, only to sink its teeth into a gambine.” 

Enjolras stared at Grantaire, before his eyes flashed. “Do you think me a fool? Is now really appropriate for your drunken ramblings?!” 

Grantaire drew back as if he had been slapped. Courfeyrac, however, was quick to come to his aid. “Enjolras, stop,” he snapped. “Grantaire speaks the truth. That is what happened!” 

The leader shoved Combeferre’s hand away from his face, pressing up from the table. “Is this some cruel jest? An attempt to conceal our failure? If it is, I will inform each and every one of you that you are ingrates. A failed revolution is one thing. Even the greatest changers of history faced adversity. But this wild tale of walking corpses and rising generals? What is the meaning of it?” 

Grantaire had found his voice by now, ready to argue with Enjolras. “The meaning of it, darling Apollo, is that General LaMarque did not die of cholera! He was overtaken by something evil. Something concocted by the devil himself! Look to Combeferre if my words are but drunken ramblings! The most logical among us saw it happen.” 

Enjolras glared death upon Grantaire at his words before letting his gaze slide to his oldest and dearest friend. Combeferre rose, voice tight as he confirmed Grantaire’s words. “A scientific impossibility. A creature of romantic fiction, Enjolras. But I saw it with my own eyes. Whether it was a corpse filled again with animation, or some unknown sickness, I do not know. But it was unlike any sight ever reported.” 

“Nay,” Grantaire cut in, shaking his head. “Not unlike any sight.” 

Les Amis turned their heads, inquisitive expressions worn by all as Grantaire continued. 

“The pyramids of Egypt did not rise without their legends of the dead walking, taking the living for their companions?” He began to pace, the group listening intently. “De Bello Lemures,” he added. “Ancient Rome. Lucius Artorius Castus went mad. He claimed that he led an army against Commodus in Gaul. The fallen rose to fight again, their humanity stripped from them.” 

He moved to continue when he was cut off by Enjolras. “Yes, Grantaire. And how, pray tell, do you know so much of this, frankly mad, phenomenon?” Grantaire narrowed his eyes against his god among men. “My mother,” he returned defiantly. “My father feared she was mad with her fascination with the dead, the supernatural. Constantly, she sought information, and he indulged her.” 

No one spoke. Grantaire spoke nothing of his roots, his family, his past. This new turned was interesting and a welcome pseudo-distraction from the terror threatening to overtake them. 

“Countless reports and pages of essays recorded by explorers came to her hands even as they thinned. I know.” He spoke no more, but his eyes dare Enjolras to challenge him. It was his personal theory that his mother was so obsessed with the dead rising because she somehow knew that her time would end early. She had foreseen the wasting away. The loss of her had robbed Grantaire of his faith in God, and thus began a life of powerful cynicism from late boyhood. 

Enjolras said nothing, swallowing. 

Realizing that everyone watched him now, even Apollo, he came to an understanding. They awaited instruction. Inspiration. And they looked to _him_? The cynic, the drunk, the skeptic. But he was the authority on the matter. He had just declared it. Thus, he needed to speak. And he knew that he had feared this day, despite the madness in it, since the day his mother had first spoken to him of walking corpses. 

“We will need to act quickly,” Grantaire said, voice calm. “Weapons, provisions. Safety in numbers if the infection spreads. I have no doubts that it will. There were many emerging from that crowd bitten. It will only be a matter of time.” He swallowed, looking to the frightened faces of his friends, friends who had always regarded him for his good humour and little more. This was Enjolras’ job. And even he stood mum. Biting his lip, he sighed, continuing, “I would recommend holing up here. The stairs can be taken out if need be—the beasts have all the coordination of stiffened paper and cannot climb. Windows barred.” He looked around, nodding. “You wanted a barricade. Here is your opportunity.” 

Then, it came to an assignment of jobs. Joly and Combeferre claimed that they could get into the classrooms and hospitals for medicines if need be, Feuilly knew where guns could be found—they had been prepping for a revolution, after all—Prouvaire and Bahorel were set to dismantling tables and barring windows. Bossuet, who claimed his ankle was fine, was sent with Courfeyrac to gather food. This left Grantaire turning to Enjolras, who stood lost in the center of the room. 

“This isn’t real,” he commented softly, his face having lost that determination and fire which Grantaire so loved. 

“A bit different from your political rallies, is it not?” Grantaire returned. 

Enjolras turned his eyes to Grantaire and glared on reflex before softening. “I know nothing of this,” he admitted. “How can I learn?” This was a man entirely committed to the study of his passions. He was an expert in political theory, historical tactics, social justice. But this? 

“Can you shoot a gun?” Grantaire wanted to know. 

“Of course I can,” Enjolras snapped back. “I was going to lead a revolution.” 

“Doesn’t mean you can shoot a gun.” 

“Well, I can.” 

“Right, then. You shall go with me when Feuilly gets back. We are going to need to sound the alarm. Let the people know.”


	5. In Which Apollo Yields to Dionysus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Zombies!

Grantaire had been right in his caution. Within a day, there were reports of fearsome beasts attacking the gambin and gambine unfortunate enough to be caught at night. It was beginning.

Under Grantaire’s careful eyes, a barricade had gone up, barring them into the Musain. Each exit was marked, well concealed, and always guarded. A few of those they had informed had joined the Amis in their preparation against the creatures, and soon the café stood as safe as they could. 

The gambine who trailed Marius had sent her little brother, a boy of no more than seven, to the Musain. Gavroche, his name was. And he was a quick one. Grantaire had been surprised at how he had insisted upon helping. Though he was like a puppy attempting ferocity of its adult counterparts, he became a favourite among les amis in a few short hours. It was then that he got more daring with his arguments for jobs. 

“Just ‘cause I’m little don’t mean I can’t do nothing!” came the high-pitched argument to the acting leader. 

“I do not have time to worry for you, Gavroche.” 

Gavroche crossed his arms with a growl, his grubby blond hair falling into his eyes. “Me and my boys been wanderin’ the streets of Paris longer’n you’ve been the leader. We know all the places to go for food and things!” 

“And if you are injured? Or worse?” 

“I won’t get hurt!” 

Grantaire pinched at his nose. “No. You stay here.” And with that, he crossed to the guns they had stockpiled, taking one and seeing that it was loaded before handing it off to Enjolras, who had gone very taciturn since the night before. Grantaire worried, but he had no time to speak with him properly. He did know that he would be keeping Apollo with him at all times. If something were to happen to him whilst Grantaire was elsewhere, he had no idea how he’d cope. 

They were going for a food run. He, Enjolras, and Prouvaire, who claimed he knew a place where they could steal some. Enjolras had wanted to counter with the disgusting morals of one who stole from the people, but he had not had time to get a word it. Grantaire was slipping into seriousness. Enjolras was entirely unaccustomed to not knowing what to do, and it did not sit well with him. 

The night was cold as Prouvaire led the way, an inexperienced hand on his musket. Grantaire was uneasy with the concept of his inexperience, but could do nothing for it. They would begin target practice when they could, but bullets were scarce and the last thing Grantaire wanted was to waste one. Still, it was a necessary evil. 

As they walked, Prouvaire claimed that he would go in through the front of the café and let the other two in when he found the key. Grantaire was not keen on separating, but Jehan had taken off before he could speak up. Looking to Enjolras, who held a white knuckled grin on his weapon, Grantaire nodded, leading him around the back of the café. 

It was there that they heard it. A shriek and a gunshot. Grantaire’s eyes shot wide as he slammed the butt of his gun against the lock in the back, breaking it, before charging in with Enjolras following close behind, his skin having gone white. 

The place was small, thus making it easy to see Prouvaire where he cowered behind the bar in the far corner as one of the creatures—a female, its hair hanging in hanks over its shoulders as it moaned—attempted to get at him. Without thinking, Grantaire raised his gun to shoot it, surprised when the shot richoted off the ceiling thanks to Enjolras. 

“What the—“ he moved to aim again when the thing turned on him. Reloading would take too long, and the creature was shuffling across the room more quickly than he was comfortable with. Turning, he yanked Enjolras’ gun from his fingers and shot, landing the bullet right between the eyes. The zombie went down like a sack of grain. Not having time to verbally destroy Enjolras, Grantaire made his way up the stairs, checking for other of the creatures. 

“Are you all right, Prouvaire?” Grantaire demanded, coming to his friend’s side. “Did it bite you?” 

Jehan stood terrified as Grantaire ran his hands over his form, searching for blood and bites. Finding none, Grantaire whirled on Enjolras. “Have you gone idiot, Apollo?” he demanded, moving into Enjolras space. 

“That woman was still a citizen of France!” Enjolras snapped. “You had no right to kill her. We _represent_ the people, not kill them. “ 

“It is _not_ a person, Enjolras!” Grantaire growled, face inches from Enjolras. “The moment that bite happens, it is not a person. It is a liability! It will kill you and _eat_ you! There is not a method to its madness. It is not trying to recruit you to its cause! It’s hungry!” His dark eyes bored into Enjolras’ blue. “Do you realize that?” he snapped. 

Enjolras’ eyes were hard, narrowed at Grantaire. He moved to speak. “Suppose they aren’t dead, Grantaire? What then? Then we are _murdering_ the people of France.” 

Gritting his teeth, Grantaire moved to respond, but stopped, shaking his head. Turning, Grantaire returned to Jehan, who shivered in fear and watched Grantaire argue with the man he had once looked to for leadership. Crossing the room, Grantaire rested a hand on Jehan’s shoulder. “You’re fine, Prouvaire. It’s fine. We’ll get back and get you a drink. Have Joly look you over.” 

He looked back to the bar, moving behind it and retrieving a few loaves of bread, a knife, and three bottles of wine from it. Tucking them into a satchel at his hip, he reached for Prouvaire’s fallen gun, handing it to him. He had to wrap Jehan’s fingers around the musket himself before moving up the stairs to go through the area, which looked to be abandoned for the most part. He returned with blankets, another bottle of wine, and an ancient musket from the closet. Passing the blankets to Prouvaire, he ushered them out of the place, stepping around the corpse. 

When they returned to the Musain, it was in an uproar. A tussle in the corner had Grantaire shoving past people to get to the gambine, who he realized now was called Eponine. When she spotted him, she stalked up to Grantaire. “Where is my brother?” she demanded of him. Grantaire stared. “I told Gavroche to stay here,” he informed her. 

“And you supposed he would listen to you, _cretin_?” She snapped, worry in her gaze. “He was meant to be safe here!” 

“Had he listened, he would be!” 

“It doesn’t matter. He’s out there. He needs to be gone after!” Her eyes blazed. “I’ll go myself.” 

“That isn’t necessary,” Grantaire snapped, unloading the satchel he carried until it held but bullets. Glancing around, he located a small hatchet as well and tucked it into the waist of his trousers. He would not be caught having to reload or take another man’s musket. “I will find him. Joly, see to Jehan. A strong drink should do it. And check for bites or scratches. No one is to go out again tonight. Not until we have all of our people.” 

Bossuet approached at this point, a hand running over his gleaming head. “Any word from Marius?” he asked softly. 

Grantaire looked to the other man with a shake of his head. He liked Marius. He could only hope that everything had gone smoothly and he had found his girl. For now, however, he could not focus his energy on the unknown. 

Eponine, whose eyes had lifted at Marius’ name, stared at Grantaire. “With me,” he said clearly. “Can you shoot, by any chance?” 

As if in response, Eponine pulled her overcoat to show a crude pistol tucked into her belt. “My father’s,” she explained. “I can keep the shot straight if it’s not too far.” 

Accepting this answer, Grantaire nodded. “Do you have any idea where he’d go?” 

“A few ideas,” she answered coolly. 

“Then we go now.” 

“I want to come,” came a soft voice to Grantaire’s left. 

Turning to his Apollo, Grantaire hardened his gaze. “I cannot trust you to take the shot when you need to. Until you realize that they are not people, you remain here.” 

The rest of the assembled company paused, surprised that Grantaire hadn’t jumped at the chance to be close to Enjolras. Normally, he would have, but now was not a time for lovesickness. They needed to act. Thus, he left Enjolras standing in uncertainty. He felt no shame in his desire to defend the people of France. He had desired to do so since he began study of politics at university. But was Grantaire right in this instance, much as it pained Enjolras to consider. He understood that he had been usurped, that the Amis looked to Grantaire, now. And a part of him did begrudge this truth, even if it was logical. Still, he would not attempt to reassert himself. Grantaire knew what was best in this situation. There was no room for Enjolras’ morals. The idea of it had him sagging, unsure, as he watched Grantaire go.


	6. The First of Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Creys ahead.

The streets were dingy and filthy as Grantaire picked around rubbish on the ground. He wished he had had a drink before they left, but it was what it was. The sound of the dead moaning filled the air, sending Grantaire on edge. There was the occasional shriek of a helpless victim, and Grantaire hated that he could not save them, but his own survival and Eponine’s had to come first until they found Gavroche. The human race had always thrived upon killing each other. Grantaire understood that, and he could force himself to allow it to continue if it ensured the survival of those nearest to him. Perhaps it was selfish, but that was just another of man’s unbecoming traits. There was nothing to be done for it.

It is generally advisable not to sneak up on an armed person. However, it is particularly advisable when this person fears for their life. Thus, things could have gone very wrong for the person who tapped Grantaire’s shoulder. Whirling to shoot, the cynic nearly blew the head off of one Marius Pontmercy, who clapped a hand over a pretty, doe-eyed blonde’s lips as she shrieked. “It’s me, Grantaire,” he said in a loud whisper. 

“Eponine,” Grantaire called out, halting her ahead and prompting her to turn. Taking in the familiar figure, she darted back, arms encircling Marius’ waist joyously. Grantaire stepped to the side, closer to the girl who could only be Marius’ lady love. Clad in the ridiculous skirts and a bonnet against the cold, Grantaire had never seen something so out of place before. She was a flower sprouting from shite, a ray of sunshine in a thunderstorm. Studying her, he slid his eyes to Marius, who had escaped the gambine’s grip. 

“This is Cosette,” he murmured to his friend. “I was… I was bringing her to the Musain. I heard about the safe haven you’ve set up. Her father…” he went quiet, looking to the girl as she dropped her eyes, which might have brimmed with tears. 

Sighing, Grantaire nodded. “It doesn’t seem much sense for her to be running about in fine silks, but she will be welcome at the Musain. We cannot return with you, however. Gavroche has gone missing.” Directing his eyes away from Eponine, his gaze betrayed the fact that he feared the worst. 

“Gavroche?” Marius repeated, looking to the gambine. “Can I help?” 

“Not with her in tow,” Grantaire groused. “Have you got a weapon?” 

Sheepishly, Cosette held up what appeared to be an iron pan. Grantaire nearly cackled. Perhaps there was fire to the girl beneath her innocence. Marius, for his part, at least had a kitchen knife. It was well enough, Grantaire supposed. He and Eponine needed their guns. Thus, he nodded. “Go to the Musain. They’ll let you in. We shall return when we’ve found the boy.” 

Nodding, Marius gathered Cosette close to him again before making her way down the streets. Grantaire watched them until they determined that it was safe to move. 

“The mill is just up this way,” Eponine explained, her voice thick with something Grantaire dismissed as concern. He lacked the time for it to be anything else. 

“Gavroche used to take bread from it to bring back for dinner. He probably wanted to help, didn’t he?” 

“He did,” Grantaire responded. “I forbade him.” 

“You can’t forbid Gavroche from anything,” Eponine answered. “It just makes him more determined. He thinks he can do anything.” 

“So I see.” 

Eponine swallowed, peering around the corner. When she did, she shrieked, drawing her pistol. Grantaire leapt in surprise, staring at her as she ran out from the corner like a creature of Hades. Following, Grantaire could see why. It was too late, though. They had not come fast enough. 

There was a cluster of the creatures on the ground, silently munching. That was when you worried, after all, when the beasts went silent. Grantaire felt his stomach clench as he took in the little cap a few feet away from the chewing cluster. Suddenly, he no longer regretted the lack of alcohol in his stomach. Eponine was shooting wildly, and even manage to fell a few of the beasts. Of course, her outbursts drew their attention as she ran toward them. 

Pointing his musket, Grantaire shot and killed one of the creatures nearest them before drawing out the hatchet. 

The blade slid cleanly into one of the beasts’ skulls, felling it as Grantaire raced to Eponine, who had run out of bullets. Catching her around the waist, he hauled her back, fighting with the hatchet until he had killed enough of them to escape. He kept his eyes steadfastly upward, not wanting to see the little body that remained in their midst. Eponine gave a rasping sob, and moved to pull away from Grantaire. He caught her harder. “No, ‘Ponine,” he told her harshly, swallowing down bile. “It’s too late. I promise it is. We have to get out of here. Live now, grieve later.” 

His words did not soothe her as she sank into the muck to retrieve the fallen cap. Already, new creatures were appearing, attracted to the noise of the gunshot and her shrieks. Grantaire would have given anything to allow her the moments she needed, but he simply lacked the ammunition. Thus, he stooped to grab her by the arm. “I _know_ it hurts,” he snapped to her. “I know. But we have to run, Eponine. Now.” 

Finally hearing him, the dark eyed gambine took off without any further prompting. Relieved, Grantaire gave chase, musket in one hand, hatchet in the other. Heaven forbid he slip and fall. 

The duo ran all the way back to the Musain before Eponine leaned heavily against the wall, her sobs becoming wails. Deeming them safe enough, Grantaire stood by her, watching pain wrack her. The commotion drew the attention of those inside, leading Combeferre, Enjolras, Marius, and Courfeyrac into the night. 

Grantaire stood back from Combeferre and Marius as they took the girl, who leaned heavily against the latter. 

“What happened?” Courfeyrac demanded of Grantaire, who merely dropped his eyes, heart heavy. 

“We were too late,” he said simply. “We lost him.” 

Courfeyrac went white, shoving past Enjolras, who stood staring. 

“What is it, Apollo?” Grantaire asked, sagging under the weight of what had happened. He needed a drink. A strong one. Absinthe would be best. 

“Don’t call me that,” came the quiet reply. 

Grantaire looked up, studying Enjolras. “You never minded before,” he returned, studying the statue of a man who looked as if he had been left in the rain for too long. Still a statue, just bedraggled. 

“I always disliked it,” Enjolras answered. He was well aware that his status among Les Amis D’ABC had placed him above them all, and he had allowed it to get his points across. If he was regarded as a god among men, people would be more inclined to hear his words and react. Now, however, with the world crashing down around him, he did not feel much like a god. 

“All the more reason to continue,” Grantaire tried to tease, but the levity was lost on the situation. For a long moment, there was silence, Grantaire’s eyes on the cobblestone underfoot, and Enjolras’ on Grantaire himself. 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire ventured finally. 

“Yes?” 

“They’re going to need uplifting,” the artist said. “And they cannot look to me for it. Me, a cynical painter? No. They require a great oration. Words of inspiration. Have you a speech in you?” 

Enjolras swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I haven’t much material for inspiration, Grantaire,” he commented. 

Meeting his eyes, Grantaire shook his head. “My Apollo. Your light burns as brightly as before. Merely begin, and the words will come.” 

Enjolras did not comment on the nickname, electing instead to nod. He would attempt, even if the speech fell upon deaf ears. For speeches were made every day to inspire. This inspiration was to be different than the others’, but Enjolras had always known of his skill. If anyone could sway them, it would be him. 

Coming to stand beside Eponine in an awkward attempt to comfort the crying woman, Enjolras swallowed. “We must not allow this to break us,” he began slowly. Eponine moved to open her mouth, likely to verbally destroy him, but he continued, shaking his head. “We have suffered a tragedy in the face of evil. Hardship has been a reality of humanity since the beginning of time. Any number of things: war, famine, illness. And every loss leaves a darkness in man. But we must not allow this darkness to break us.” He stepped into the middle of the room, buttoning his crimson jacket as he pressed up, meeting the eyes of each of his friends. “Two days ago, we talked of revolution. We spoke of taking France back for her people. Now, she has offered us a new obstacle. An obstacle unlike any for which we could have prepared. We will lose if we allow it to take us. We must not yield.” 

The consolations and the murmuring had gone quiet as Enjolras spoke, calm as ever. Eyes caught onto him, particularly Grantaire, who always stared when Apollo spoke, and Cosette, who had never seen something like this before. Enjolras was a force, and his voice was strong and inspiring. Cosette had lived a quiet and sheltered life. She had heard little of revolution or idealism, knowing what she did from her father and the books. 

“This threat could break us, if we let it. But we must not. Through ingenuity and fearlessness, we will best these beasts. We must recall our ancestors overcoming obstacles of which they had never conceived. It is a different situation, I understand, and there is fear. But were you not the men and women who cheered for me two nights ago, ready to lay down your lives for justice? Now, we must preserve our lives.” He shook his head. “I said that our lives did not matter in the grand scheme of our success. Now, they are all that matter. We must survive this. Even if we are the only ones left, though I believe that we are not the only ones who will stand against this thread, we must never surrender. Not to this. Not to the work of the devil. We must put our faith in our abilities, for man is an exceptional force. The most exceptional apart from God, himself. We must see the boy,” he paused to look to Eponine, eyes soft as his voice went sympathetic, “as an example of what these beasts are capable of. We are at war, gentleman. And when word gets out, the world will look to France in terror. We must show the world that she is stronger. That she can overcome this. We are no longer for France. We _are_ France.” 

There was a long moment of silence, during which time, Enjolras went very still, fearing that his oration had had no effect on the morale on his friends. On anything. If that were the case, he would never feel more lost than he would in this moment. His purpose had always been to rally people to causes. If he could not do so now, when it was most vital, what purpose did he have at all. 

The silence ended abruptly with Courfeyrac crying out “Long live la Patrie!” 

The exclamation was enough to break the silence, cheers similar to two nights ago, though the atmosphere was far different. Heavier, almost. Enjolras, for his part, exhaled heavily as Grantaire approached him. Reaching out to rest a hand upon his wrist, the cynic nodded. “Merci, Apollo. I could never hope to brush your idealism.” 

Enjolras said nothing, watching tearstained faces wearing expressions of hope. He sincerely wished for it to last. He had spoken from his heart, and he did believe in them, but he feared, as well. Of course, he would not express this, but he feared as any would. “Yes,” he managed finally. “Maybe so. But your cynicism is far more suited to this world, Grantaire.”


	7. Downtime at the Musain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More creys

A week had passed. A blessed week without incident. The loss of Gavroche had demonstrated just how serious the situation was. Food runs and runs for supplies were kept consistently clean and small, and lookouts who proved to be good shots were nearly always in place when they had people out. Eponine had sworn vengeance on the creatures, and took to violence with them whenever one approached. If it was her way of coping, despite any concerns the amis and the others who lived in the Musain had, they would not begrudge her.

Cosette, their resident bourgeois lady, had been granted the luxury of her own room, as she was far too innocent and wide-eyed to be perpetually surrounded by the men of the amis, particularly Courfeyrac, who frequently forgot the woman was there and began stripping down to sleep before she had left. That had happened once or twice, and she had gone bright red and averted her eyes, only to have Marius do the same and apologize profusely. The rest of the amis had given their unabashed friend lectures behind guffaws and rolls of their eyes the moment Marius had led her away. Eponine, for her part, had been offered the Musain’s other room on the grounds that she was female and might be more comfortable by herself. She had scoffed at the offering, protesting special treatment. So that room became a luxury that was taken in turns by the amis. Eponine had taken to sleeping on the second floor landing without complaint. Since Gavroche, the gambine had gone quiet. Grantaire had seen her eyes lingering on Marius, who fawned over his pretty bourgeois lady, and he could empathize. The way Eponine looked at Marius, Grantaire was sure he looked at Enjolras. Both men were equally oblivious. Thus, the drunk felt a sort of kinship for her and had found himself sitting with her on the second floor landing with a bottle of wine. There was not much privacy in the Musain, so in a lot of conversation was conveyed through meaningful glances, murmured phrases, and even the occasional jotting down of notes, though Eponine’s spelling was not the best. 

When he wasn’t sitting with Eponine, Grantaire sketched. Most often, he drew Enjolras, but he had to be cautious with people constantly wanting to see his work. So, in the daytime, he sketched the amis, the enemy, all manner of things. He was quickly running out of paper, of course, so he’d need to begin conserving. Thankfully, charcoal was always easy to come by. All it took was a singed bit of wood. The paper was more difficult, of course. But he still had a fair bit left. No need to worry just yet. Fortunately, paper was not one of the things which people would view as a necessity against these creatures. Weapons, food, blankets, and medicines were an entirely different story, however. Hence Grantaire’s decision to have constant scouting for it. Fortunately, they had recovered enough ammunition for Grantaire to feel satisfied that they had enough to practice with. Some of the amis were not terrible shots, either. They had to be very careful of their timing, certain that the shots wouldn’t bring the beasts. Several had passed the building itself, but thus far, the barricades had held. The beasts lacked the coordination to scale them, and they blocked off the street almost entirely. 

Grantaire had never been in a position of leadership before, and perhaps there was a reason for it. At times, his cynicism was abrasive and frightened others, only to have Combeferre scold him and console. Not to mention, Grantaire’s speeches were never rousing, nor was he able to keep hope in people’s hearts. He could make decisions easily, lacking the burden of optimism and bursting in realism. Some of his decisions had been opposed by the others, but he had the conviction at the very least to justify himself. He did not have causes, but he didn’t want to see his friends dead, either. For they were his friends and he did care for them, even if his good humour had been spread thin and his paranoia was up. 

He was considering the strangeness of the situation; the cynic who had been dismissed as a barnacle upon the group had now risen to power. It had been quiet that particular night, Jehan and Feuilly having gone out to scout, but the others content to remain as relaxed as they could get given the circumstances. Joly had gone out as well, begging need to search for Musichetta, who had appeared at the Musain the day of LaMarque’s rising, but had claimed that she would be going to help others and checking in occasionally. She had left the other night, ready to lead more people to the already bursting Musain. She hadn’t returned. Thus, Joly had wanted to go, fearing the worst. Bossuet had trailed after him, as was to be expected, and they had yet to return. Grantaire worried, of course, but Musichetta was one of the more capable women he had met. There was a chance that it was nothing. But it wasn’t necessarily a good chance. Thus, he was on edge . 

When Jehan returned with Feuilly, they were squabbling. Feuilly apparently seemed displeased with Prouvaire, who did not seem at all contrite. Getting to his feet, Grantaire came up to meet them, noting the bundles in their arms that spoke their success. “What’s happened?” he wanted to know. 

Feuilly turned to Grantaire, his lower class accent thick with his irritation. “I found us food, and plenty of it,” he began, holding up the bundle and offering it to Grantaire. “Six loaves of good bread and stored meet from a house in town. Everything was going well, until this one nearly got us killed.” His eyes blazed at Jehan, who shook his head. 

“He is overreacting,” Jehan countered. “I left his side for a mere moment. And the creature which approached us died easily.” 

“You separated?” Grantaire asked incredulously. “Have you ignored every word I’ve spoken?” 

Jehan shook his head. “It was a moment!” he protested. “I spied something worthwhile.” 

Intrigued beneath his irritation, Grantaire crossed his arms. “Oh? Enlighten the rest of us. What so called to you that you saw fit to abandon your partner?” Jehan grinned sheepishly, lifting his own bundle and unwrapping it. Grantaire stared as the item was revealed and raised a brow. Gleaming in Jehan’s hands was a well-polished violin and bow. “Why?” was all that Grantaire could manage. This instrument was what Jehan had deemed important enough to risk separation? Grantaire gave a laugh, shaking his head. “Of course the connoisseur of all things artistic would think it worthwhile to lay life on the line for such a treasure,” he spoke plainly. “’Tis Nero, himself, come to play us to ashes.” 

Rolling his eyes skyward, Jehan shrugged. “I shall do no such thing. Play, indeed. But not to ash. I had hope to lift morale. The gloom of this place threatens to suffocate all inside.” 

“Gloom?” Grantaire repeated. “Because the place should burst with sunshine and joy?” Perhaps his words were a little scathing, but the idea seemed so ludicrous to him. 

“Maybe,” Jehan replied with a shrug.” 

Grantaire laughed again. “You baffle me, but can I deny the Musain gaiety? I think not. By all means.” He extended his hand. “What will you play for us?” 

“Whatever strikes me,” Jehan replied, settling onto a stool. 

The artist shook his head, taking a deep sip of his second bottle of wine and allowing his head to spin pleasantly. “Something to dance to, mayhaps?” he asked Prouvaire, turning to look. 

“Does anyone here much feel like dancing?” Jehan returned. 

“I do, perhaps,” Grantaire returned with a grin. 

Bahorel, having been observing the proceedings, gave a grin. “A drunken jig? Have a care not to stumble into the bar, Grantaire.” 

Swiveling around, Grantaire gave a mock glare to the other man. “I am as light of foot as Enorches in his Dionysian temple.” 

“Really now?” came the reply as the amis who were there grinned with the change in Grantaire’s humour. “A demonstration, then. For I find myself the skeptic in your stead.” 

Glancing around, Grantaire moved up the stairs, albeit a bit clumsily, to stand before Eponine, extending a hand. “Join me in a dance, ‘Ponine,” he demanded, eyes already preceeding feet as they gleamed. 

Eponine stared at him, pulling the tatters of her skirt over her ankles. “I don’t much like dancing,” she said simply. “And anyway, you’ll look foolish.” 

“Will I? Are you so quick to believe me nothing more than clumsy? I can hold my liquor and a beat.” He leaned down, grabbing her hand to pull her to her feet. Eponine squealed in protest before allowing the action with a begrudging capitulation. Grantaire grinned his success, leading her onto the main floor as he beckoned for Jehan to play. “Something lively, then, mon ami.” 

Laughing and shaking his head, Prouvaire moved to comply. As the bow slid across the strings in a merry tune, Grantaire took the gambine’s waist and fingers and swung her effortlessly about the floor. In surprise, she giggled and allowed herself to be led. 

The amis looked on with quirks of their eyebrows. A drunk, a cynic, an artist, and now a dancer? Grantaire was beginning to slip back into his status as their resident enigma. What other secret talents was he concealing? It was certainly entirely unexpected for him to be so dainty of foot as he danced a polished and lively step with Eponine on his arm. 

Grantaire paused as the music stopped, looking triumphant. “No jeers from my friends now?” he demanded with a grin as Courfeyrac applauded with a roll of his eyes. “No words of disbelief?” Adjusting his waistcoat, Grantaire grinned. “Then perhaps my work is finished for the time being. For now, I saw we all dance. Jean speaks the truth of the gloom. Where is the harm?” 

The amis exchanged glances, some getting to their feet with grins on their faces, and others, like Combeferre, offering quietly disapproving faces. Soon, however, Jehan played another tune, and laughter poured into the room as clumsy steps were attempted. Surprisingly, none were so graceful as Grantaire himself. In the interlude, Enjolras had emerged from his place in the small room off the kitchen—he much preferred his privacy when he slept—at the sound of lively violin music. Staring in disbelief at the scene before him, he was rather surprised when his hand was caught by Grantaire, who had passed Eponine off to Courfeyrac. He looked bewildered as the drunk attempted to pull him into his merry steps, before an expression of abject disapproval came over his features. 

“Do you really think it prudent to be wasting energy on frivolity?” Enjolras demanded as he stood heavy footed, more being danced at than with. 

“Come now, Apollo,” Grantaire replied, attempting to goad him into the spontaneous festivities. “Where’s the harm?” 

“The harm,” Enjolras answered calmly, “is the noise. And the fact that Joly and Bossuet still haven’t returned with Musichetta.” 

“Continue to fret and all your golden curls will wither to silver,” Grantaire countered, though Enjolras’ words did resonate. He did worry for the three. However, it had not been long enough for him to insist upon a search party, and he did not want to risk others when it could be a delay by necessity. Had the three gotten pursued, their tardiness could be a matter of them pausing to squat in safety. Enjolras, evidently, did not seem to mind the aspect of silver hair much. His expression was stern as Grantaire retracted his touch. “We will go for them on the hour, Enjolras. For now, don’t regard me with that look of distaste.” 

Enjolras did not seem so willing to relax his features as Grantaire had suggested. Sighing, he moved to catch Eponine’s waist again to give her another round about the floor, ignoring the burn of Enjolras’ glare. 

In hindsight, perhaps Apollo had been right, for the festivities abruptly ended when a pair stumbled into the Musain, one with his hand pressed to his neck, and the other half-carrying, half-dragging him into the space. Bossuet and Joly. 

“Move,” came the shout from Joly, who did not bleed. With his words, Bossuet was laid upon a table. Grantaire’s blood ran cold as his hand was pulled away to reveal a heavily bleeding bite. Moving quickly, he reached for a pistol which Eponine had left on the bar, cocking it and holding it aloft. The amis gasped as their friend held a weapon against one of his own. But there were women here, and a few children, if Gavroche’s friends could be counted. Grantaire was not about to risk them. Not now. 

Joly, for his part, took notice of the barrel and laid himself across Bossuet as Courfeyrac grabbed at Grantaire’s arm. “Have you gone mad?” he demanded. “It’s Lesgle!” 

Grantaire tugged his arm from Courfeyrac’s reach. “If he has been bitten, he will be one of them far more quickly than you realize.” Particularly in that spot. Grantaire was no doctor—he left that to Combeferre and Joly—but the powerful pump of blood, even with the liquid he lost, would change him even sooner than a lower circulation area. “He cannot be here. Not while there are others to protect.” 

Enjolras came forward now. “We do not murder our own,” he snapped, grasping Grantaire’s wrist. 

The artist’s skin tingled as Enjolras touched it, but Grantaire hardly noticed. For he had just found a conviction, and Enjolras had always said that seeing Grantaire argue with conviction would be a sight. He was not about to let others die for the needs of the one. “I have explained this to you,” he returned with ice. “The moment the bite happens, they are no longer ours.” 

“He is our friend!” Bahorel cried. “What happened?” he demanded of Joly. 

Joly, whose eyes were still on the gun as he laid beside a gasping Bossuet, spoke quickly, voice broken. “’Chetta,” he said, allowing Combeferre near to aid with halting the bleeding. “We got there too late, just like with Gavroche. Bossuet could not process it, so he got too close.” 

Then it was lost. Grantaire’s hand didn’t shake. 

“Lower the gun,” Enjolras said firmly. 

Grantaire’s eyes did not leave the bite. “You will have to prise it from limp fingers, Enjolras,” he returned. “Bossuet cannot remain.” 

“What if I could fix him?” Joly pleaded, though they both knew the possibility was non-existent. 

The cynic shook his head. “He will change, and he’ll kill us all. It is better this way. A simple shot, a single bullet, and he will feel no pain.” 

Bossuet, whose eyes were cloudy from blood loss and the rapidly spreading infection, turned to look at Grantaire. Grantaire swallowed, averting his gaze. Joly noted the exchange and shook his head. “If you shoot Bossuet,” he piped up, “you shoot me, too.” 

“Don’t be a fool,” Grantaire shot out. 

Joly shook his head. “I am deadly serious,” he returned, coldness in his voice. 

Grantaire sighed, still keeping the pistol upon the infected. “Then you will need to go. If you insist on remaining with him, you may do so. Elsewhere.” It was a terrible development, as Joly was one of their doctors. But Grantaire could not put a bullet in Joly’s brain to get to Bossuet. He did have some semblance of a moral code. 

The room was deadly quiet as Joly processed the words, understanding. Enjolras shook his head, stepping forward. “You cannot do this, Grantaire.” 

“Well, I am the only one who will,” the Frenchman shot back to his peer. “You still don’t seem to understand what we’re up against. There is no cure. He will be one of them. And soon, judging by the clouds in his eyes.” 

“But he isn’t one of them, yet,” Enjolras challenged. 

Grantaire scoffed. “So we should just wait until he turns and then risk him biting someone else. Do you think holding a gun to my friends brings me joy? It does not. It really does not. But I will not risk all of us to save one of us.” 

Stepping into his space to glare at the shorter man, he demanded, “And by whose authority do you make that decision?” 

“By the authority you all seemed content to give me when I was saving our arses in preparation to avoid this.” 

“But you didn’t prevent it,” Enjolras shot back. 

“You think you could do better? Apollo who cannot even fire a shot against the dead that would see him in the same state or worse?” 

They didn’t have time for this argument, but it was happening nonetheless. “Lesgle is not dead! We cannot cull out our friends. We cannot be so selfish!” 

“Selfish!?” Grantaire shouted. “Pray tell, how is it selfish to place the needs of many over the needs of one already doomed. He has the infection, Enjolras. He dies where he lays, but he will not stay that way!” 

As they argued, Bossuet had gone very still, skin paling to grey as he ceased to move. Joly turned to him, his own colour moving to match his best friend’s. Grantaire swallowed, heart pounding, as he waited. “Get back,” he advised. “It does not take long.” 

Joly did not comply, and Grantaire looked to Combeferre, who had gone deadly quiet. The two exchanged an expression as Combeferre moved to pull Joly back. 

By now, everyone had crept into the room to view the happenings. Even Cosette stood frozen on the stairs. 

Grantaire didn’t want to do this, but he would have to wait until the change opened Bossuet’s eyes again. This was another fine example of his misfortune, but now it had finally ended his life. 

Enjolras, for his part, stepped forward. Grantaire caught his elbow reflexively, attempting to keep him back. The leader jerked out of his grip, however, moving to press a pair of fingers to Bossuet’s neck. The touch seemed to wake the beast which was now inhabiting Bossuet’s body, and his eyes snapped open, teeth moving to gnash at Enjolras, who yelped as he was jerked away by a horrified Grantaire. The pistol was again raised, and Joly gave a cry, coming to stand before Lesgle as he sat up, back popping and movements jerky. 

“Bossuet,” Joly tried desperately. “It’s us. Your friends. It’s Joly.” 

The beast in Lesgle gave no recognition as he lunged for the Malade Imaginaire. As he did so, a shot rang true, everyone surging back as the zombie which had been once been their friend crumpled to the ground. After it happened, Grantaire shook his head, throwing the pistol to the floor before moving past Enjolras and everyone and up the stairs. He pressed past a white-faced and terrified Cosette in the process, slamming the door to the spare room. He stood in the center of the room for a long moment, adrenaline leading his fingers and hands to shake, before he sagged onto the bed, catching his dark curls and tugging. He’d shot Bossuet. It had been for the best, but he had looked upon one of his friends, one of the men he’d joked and played cards with, and shot him. Without hesitation. What did that say about him? He had done it to protect, or so he’d said, but how could he sit calmly with the understanding that he had so simply dispatched a close friend. His breath came fast, body shaking as he attempted to regather himself. The cynic had expected that this would happen at some point, but he hadn’t anticipated it being so soon. Nor did Enjolras’ outbursts help at all. He had done what he had to. However, this didn’t do much to aid him as he continued to shake. He needed a drink, but going down to retrieve them would require him to face them. He couldn’t do so. His breath barely came to him. 

What felt like hours later—though it really could have been a matter of minutes, Grantaire couldn’t tell as he struggled to sort through the surge of panic in him—a knock sounded at the door. When he didn’t reply, the door opened, revealing a bedraggled Apollo. Grantaire looked up, scrubbing a hand over his face. He hadn’t realized that there had been tears until Enjolras had opportunity to see them. Great. The weeping drunk looking upon the god among men. A tussled marble man. Peering close, Grantaire noted a smear of blood across his cheek, and his eyes widened in alarm. 

Seeming to follow his gaze, Enjolras shook his head. “It’s not mine. I’m fine.” As he spoke, he stepped into the small room. In his hands, Grantaire saw his sketchbook, and his heart began to pound. Had he looked inside? What had he seen? He reached out, desperate to snatch it away. Enjolras allowed this, holding it out without fighting. “I didn’t look,” he said simply. “But I thought you might want it.” 

Standing uncomfortably in the doorway, Enjolras also held up a bottle of wine. He didn’t know how he felt about fueling the alcohol addiction held by Grantaire, but he had sensed that the other man would need it. 

Grantaire accepted the alcohol gratefully, wishing it were something stronger than wine. But he would likely appreciate that it wasn’t in the morning. Popping out the cork, Grantaire drank deeply, hoping that the alcohol would mute his sorrow, would bury his self-loathing. As he drank, he sensed Enjolras’ eyes upon him. Worried that he was being judged, Grantaire dropped the bottle from his lips. A sudden and overwhelming urge to explain himself had him getting up from the bed. “I did what I had to. I didn’t want to do it, but you saw! He almost bit Joly. He almost bit you.” Perhaps it wasn’t fair that one of those possibilities sounded far direr than the other, but Grantaire would never be able to put a bullet in Enjolras. He’d die first. “I had to do it, you see.” 

Enjolras held up a hand, attempting to cut Grantaire off. When he didn’t go silent, the leader reached out to lay a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, which still trembled with the rest of him. “I see that now,” he returned. “I understand. Everyone understands. It was simply difficult to face. Again, you’ve an advantage with your outlook.” 

Searching Enjolras’ eyes, Grantaire shook his head, moving to sit upon the bed, hands still shaking as he reached for the bottle again. The changes in position with sitting and then standing and then sitting again has his head swimming just a bit as he studied his hands. Enjolras, for his part, shuffled awkwardly into the room, settling beside Grantaire upon the bed stiffly. “I should not have questioned you,” he murmured, as if the words were difficult for him. In hindsight, Grantaire would believe that they probably were. 

In the moment, however, Grantaire as a human sought comfort in this state of emotional distress. Regardless of what Enjolras was to Grantaire, Apollo or just a man, he would have sought it. Thus, he allowed himself to sag against Apollo, the way he shook disconcerting the golden haired man. 

The scent of Enjolras, beneath the subtle musk of sweat and fear, calmed Grantaire as he laid his forehead upon the other’s shoulder, searching for condolence. Enjolras remained stiff for a long moment, considering the best course of action, before raising a hand to rest it on Grantaire’s shoulder again. The position was a bit awkward, perhaps, and Enjolras had no idea if he was helping or hurting, but he was attempting. The situation had Grantaire’s heart pounding. 

The two men remained like that, Grantaire trembling violently even as he pressed against Apollo. After several long moments, his grip tightened on the other man. Hoping to stop the shaking, Enjolras pressed closer, coming down from his pedestal to hold Grantaire properly and seeing nothing wrong in the practice of it. He didn’t consider it untoward or inappropriate, not in the face of this tragedy and emotional trauma, even as he dismissed all connotations of holding him there. He was providing support. Enjolras understood the workings of most every one of his friends, even if he sometime begrudged that particular label to Grantaire, and he understood human beings in general. One could not appeal to them without doing so. Thus, he comprehended the necessity for comfort. Grantaire had been right when he had claimed that he had been named the unofficial leader. Enjolras couldn’t let him fall apart if he was to protect them all. So he’d do what he had to. The firmness of Enjolras’ embrace, however unexpected, halted the tremors in Grantaire for the most part as he curled his grip around the other man’s slight waist, feeling his heart beat beneath his forehead, which now rested on his chest. He could not quite believe the situation, having never expected to be able to press himself desperately against Apollo without rebuke. And yet, here he was. 

Several more minutes passed, the silence filled by nothing more than soft breaths and the steady beat of Enjolras’ heart against Grantaire’s ear. However, when he had calmed down, Grantaire knew that he would need to pull back. Enjolras was attempting to calm him with these actions, not proclaim some desperate love for the other man. Thus, reluctant as he was and as bereft as it made him feel, Grantaire pulled back, settling with his eyes closed against the headboard as he took a steadying breath and another sip of wine. “What did you do with the body?” he asked quietly. He didn’t refer to it as Bossuet. If he did, it would send him into panic yet again. So it was easier to think of it as a body, an almost inanimate object. 

Enjolras seemed to understand, and he spoke softly. “Joly wanted us to bury him. We went out past the Seine’s banks.” 

So it had been actual hours. Interesting. Grantaire had never felt panicked for so long before. However, he supposed this situation was a good time to start if ever there was one. Rather than commenting, he nodded. “All right,” he said quietly. He might have preferred, in the long run, to know if they were going to go somewhere en masse. It also hurt to know that he hadn’t been invited. But he couldn’t dwell on it now. It would only depress him. He didn’t have time for that. Enjolras nodded, watching Grantaire with uncertainty. Was he allowed to go now? Or was he expected to stay and provide more comfort. He didn’t know which was the correct answer, sociability having never been his forte. 

Grantaire, for his part, gave a laugh at Enjolras’ expression. “You can speak, Apollo,” he said gently. “Or you can go, if you wish. I have my lady love to care for me.” To punctuate his words, he lifted the bottle and took a sip, meeting Enjolras’ eyes. In reality, he would have liked for Enjolras to remain with him. To sleep beside him, even. But such a thing was not a request he could make. Not to Enjolras. He had no doubt that he could make it of Eponine or someone looser with their affection, but Enjolras did not even seem comfortable sitting on the same bed as Grantaire, much as his reserve sometimes pained him. But it was what it was. Thus, he nodded, affirming his own words. 

Enjolras exhaled, getting to his feet. He was pleased that he now knew what to do. Nodding stiffly at Grantaire, he moved to leave. Pausing in the doorway, the leader turned to regard Grantaire. “You do well,” he commented stiffly. “The decision-making, I mean.” Yes. That was sufficient. It had to be. He could not gush. 

The cynic swallowed, looking at Enjolras. However, before he could form a response, Enjolras left. Grantaire, for his part would drain the bottle of wine, only to fall asleep with the memory of the leader’s heartbeat against his cheek.


	8. A Swindler and a Dandy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No creys! Woo!

A Swindler and a Dandy

The following morning, Joly had disappeared. Grantaire had fallen asleep late and was awoken rather abruptly with a raging headache for he had not drunk enough to still feel the welcome bleariness in the morning. Thus, when a pounding at his door sounded, he could barely manage coherency, crawling out of the bed in just his white shirt, no cravat, no waistcoat. He did not bother to check himself as he pulled open the door.

Enjolras stood in the doorway. He moved to speak before his eyes dropped to the triangle of exposed chest and he went red. Clearing his throat, he pressed onward. “Joly has left us. He left this.” Holding up a scrap of paper, he swallowed.

Grantaire reached out to take it. As his groggy eyes scanned it, he paled. Joly had left for he didn’t know that he could be around them anymore. Not without thinking of Bossuet. Joly was a weaker man, though strong in his medical affinities. It was a blow to lose him. He was also not the greatest shot. Depending on when he had left, he could be dead already. Grantaire shook his head, folding the note and placing it aside, no longer able to look at it. Doubtless, his actions had driven Joly to this. His lack of sensitivity and his inability to do anything but give into his cynicism. And perhaps it had saved them, but hiding afterward had likely not been the best decision. At all.

“What do you suggest?” Enjolras wanted to know.

Grantaire looked up, head pounding and heart heavy. “Sorry?” he asked.

“Who should we send to retrieve him?”

The cynic shook his head—a bad decision on his part—and caught it as it spun. “We shouldn’t,” he replied simply.

Enjolras refused to accept this. “What do you mean? We cannot just leave him to his devices!”

Grantaire winced at the shouting, but raised his tired eyes. “We do not risk men for one who elected to leave us. It makes no sense.”

“He’s distressed, Grantaire. And he is our friend. You can’t honestly think that—“

“I do honestly think that, though,” Grantaire cut in, his hand tugging at his curls in desperation as he looked at Enjolras. “You’ve seen Joly shoot. He can’t. We don’t know when exactly he left, where he’s gone, or whether he’s even alive!” He stopped in front of Enjolras voice going quiet as he looked into the leader’s face. “Don’t make me shoot another of my friends, Apollo,” he murmured softly.

It looked as though the leader wanted to dispute the words but he took in Grantaire’s desperate expression and balked. Part of him believed strongly that they should be going after Joly, but the other part had begun to rationalize the idea of not going after the medical student. It had, after all, been his choice to leave, and Enjolras respected his friends enough to understand that he should trust Joly’s decision. Of course, he might also argue that Joly was in no position to make such a decision, but that would lead him back to the argument with Grantaire, whose eyes were still watery from drink and whose shoulders bore the burden of his friends’ distress and inexperience with such a world. In general, Enjolras was not disinclined to argue about anything with Grantaire. But this...

The would-be revolutionary sighed, running his hand through his golden curls, which had mostly come loose from the tail he wore at the nape of his neck. Looking to the cynic, he tightened his jaw. “I do not necessarily agree with this, Grantaire,” he said softly. “But I can defer to a cynic in a cynical situation. If Joly comes back, though, we will not turn him away.”

“Of course not,” Grantaire replied. He had a sinking suspicion, however, that Joly would not be coming back. The statistical likelihood was very low indeed. That being said, he was not heartless, nor did he wish Joly gone by any stretch. Thus, if the medical student merely needed time to come to his senses before returning to the Musain, of course Grantaire would welcome him back. He was not particularly close with Joly, but he would never wish ill of him. The man had been present for Grantaire’s complications—mostly related to brawling and drunkenness—and there were plenty of reasons for the drunk to regret his loss. “I would never play God, Enjolras. Should Joly return to us unbitten, what right have I to turn a healthy away to die?”

Accepting his words, Enjolras nodded, thinking of nothing of importance to say.

Grantaire studied the taller man for a moment. He looked exhausted and drawn, his hair falling to frame his pretty face, which lacked the slight rosiness of cheek it usually bore. His lips were paler than usual, and his eyes were slightly lackluster. This new world and situation was taking a toll on him. Of course, these differences in appearance were minor enough that others might not notice. But Grantaire had had dreams of the long fingers, the curling hair, the pink lips as they orated…or didn’t orate, whatever the case may be. The artist knew every feature of Enjolras’ face intimately, though he had never been given express permission to do so. One could not ban eyes from seeing, from ravishing every inch of a person with the passion of a lover despite never having expressed such sentiments. “You do look tired, Apollo. Does our god among men feel the strain of his human vessel?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that,” he tried again.

“What? Apollo? ‘Tis with naught but truth, that I use it.” He was mocking slightly. Good naturedly. “And you deflected the observation.”

“You look no better,” Enjolras snapped back. “You reek of alcohol and appear to have evaded sleep for upwards of days.”

“Sound observations, my esteemed Hyperion.” Grantaire replied.

The other shook his head, moving to go. He hadn’t time to argue with Grantaire. Not that he had anything else on, really. He supposed he should say that he hadn’t the patience.

Grantaire’s hand shot out to catch Enjolras’ long fingers in his own calloused grip. His voice softened as the student turned back to the cynic. “You haven’t been sleeping either, have you?”

Thrown off by the touch of fingers on his own, Enjolras recalled the strange moment he had shared with Grantaire when he had stepped down from the chair after his call for revolution. He was not entirely observant in personal and social matters, but he had recalled that instance. It had been thrust in his face, after all. Why shouldn’t he recall it? It had been a moment of great triumph, as a matter of fact, for the cynic had been moved by his speech, and to move Grantaire with politics for which he claimed to care nothing was a feat in and of itself. Now, as he felt the same calloused fingers holding his lightly, his brow furrowed and he forgot to check himself. “Of course I haven’t. This new world is not conducive to restful sleep, Grantaire.”

The cynic stepped forward, a bit closer to Enjolras while still maintaining respectful distance. “Are you frightened, Enjolras? You sleep apart from the rest of us. Do you worry that something will come to you while you rest?”

Enjolras furrowed his brow again, hesitating. He had already suffered more than one nightmare in this hell on earth. But he would not mention such a thing to Grantaire. It was irrelevant. He feared what he did not understand, as any man did, but the fear persisted because he could not learn. There was no information for him to absorb, no books for him to read. He despised this perpetual uncertainty and nervous inevitability. He wanted to believe that he and his friends would come out of this, that one day their efforts could be directed toward France and her living people and their rights. But it was becoming more difficult to maintain that confidence with each passing day. He could not sleep for fear, as Grantaire had assessed, but he also could not sleep for plaguing vexation. “Fear is inevitable in this situation. Avoiding succumbing to such fear, however, is the challenge we are given. What asset can we be to France if we allow our fear to rule us?” A diplomatic answer, he thought.

Grantaire shook his head, considering the other. “France has forsaken us,” he returned. “What use is there in directing our energies in being anything for her, when it is so apparent that she cares not for us?”

Enjolras shook his head. “Can’t you see?” he asked. “She is testing us. Our will. She wants us strong enough to speak for her people.”

“So she kills them and brings them back to terrorize us?”

“She does what she must.”

“You must be aware of how foolish you sound.”

The leader glared at Grantaire. “There is no folly in idealism, Grantaire,” Enjolras responded. “When will you see that?”

“When it is proven to me,” Grantaire replied before returning to the main subject. “You should sleep, Enjolras.”

“So should you,” was the reply.

Smirking, Grantaire gestured to the bed. “I would sleep with the reassurance that Apollo is comfortable,” he snarked back.

“Be serious.”

“Oh, but I am serious. However, such a notion must be so repellant to you.”

“What notion?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire shook his head, sitting down upon the bed as he spoke. “Curling up with a filthy drunk unfit to kiss your boots,” he said simply. “It does not quite fit the image I have for you in my mind.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “Do you think me narcissistic enough to believe myself above you?” he returned. “We are equals at our very base, Grantaire.”

“Are we?” Grantaire returned. “Rousseau might say so, and you might chirp these beliefs, but I am well aware of how you look down your perfectly swooping nose at the drunk in the corner as he gets raucous and challenges you on subjects he cannot even begin to understand.”

It wasn’t true. Grantaire contributed naught but agitating and sweeping orations of cynicism, but even Enjolras could not deny his intelligence. He had never claimed that Grantaire was dense. And perhaps he did look down his nose at the other, but he drowned his intelligence in drink and wasted his coin and his time in the process. Of course, admitting to this would be a capitulation in an argument with Grantaire. This was simply unacceptable on principle. Thus, Enjolras shook his head. “I would have no more difficulty sleeping beside you as I would Combeferre,” he returned. “It is beside the point, however, as there are things to be done.”

“The clock on the mantle reads not five, Enjolras. Who else is awake but you?”

“You.”

Grantaire might have expected that. He gave a laugh. “Indeed, but only because you saw fit to pound upon the door.”

“For matters of significant import,” Enjolras snapped back.

“Surely,” Grantaire answered. “The point is that I am returning to bed, and you will have nothing better to do. So seek your cot, for the cold floor must be a far more genial prospect than me for a bedmate.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Enjolras shot back.

“And you, my Apollo, are just as elitist as any bourgeois boy, even if you pretend it isn’t so.”

With a sound of frustration, Enjolras divested himself of his cravat, placing it on an ancient rocking chair in the corner, followed by his crimson waistcoat. Grantaire had gone silent, staring at him from the bed. Enjolras, himself, did not speak either until he matched Grantaire in undress. Then, he turned to the bed. “Move over,” he snapped.

“What?” Grantaire asked dumbly.

“I fail to see why it matters to you if I do or do not sleep, but I won’t be called haughty. Move over. I can share a bed with you quite easily. My breeding has no effect on my judgments.” As a matter of fact, Enjolras hated when his upbringing was referenced at all, as it cast him in a hypocritical air despite his passions; which spoke the contrary. His inexperience with firsthand struggle did not devalue his message. Or it should not. And Grantaire was not going to turn his upbringing—over which he had no control—against him.

The drunk stared; studying Enjolras in this less than immaculate state, bootless and undone, and wondered if he had missed the part where it had happened. He had not thought Enjolras capable of dishevelment or even of being casual and yet here he was.

“Are you going to move over or not?” Enjolras asked tersely.

Mechanically, Grantaire moved allowing room for another body beneath the duvet. Enjolras took the opportunity and the spot without a word, turning onto his side to keep his back to the other. Now that he had made his point, however, the discomfort of closeness and the connotations of bed-sharing had him flushing furiously. Of course, he would not show this to Grantaire who would surely laugh at his ‘virginal sensibilities’. Instead he reached for the lamp snuffing it out and forcing himself to close his eyes.

Grantaire stared at the outline of Enjolras’ thin and well-formed back as it faced him disbelieving the situation altogether. If the warmth of the other did not radiate from him, Grantaire might have believed Enjolras to be some sort of spectre or trick of the light. And yet, here he was, in bed with Grantaire. The drunk’s heart picked up despite himself. It was nothing more than sleeping, but still. This intimate closeness had his heart racing. Laying stock-still, ensuring that not a single part of him touched the other, Grantaire laid staring at the ceiling in the darkness throat dry and fingers tense. Enjolras was in bed with him.

When sleep did come, it was more relaxed than any he’d had since this whole mess had begun. Perhaps even since before that.

***

It was a strange sight indeed to see a man in a well kempt suit and hat walking through the streets of infected Paris, a musket balanced carelessly on his shoulder and a hatchet tucked in his cummerbund as he whistled. He bore no bloodstains, nor did he seem overly concerned with the situation at hand, which was the reality that he was fast approaching a shambling undead in his path.

One might think the dandy as he walked was entirely out of place in a scene such as this, as if some painter with a bemused expression had painted him into the scene merely to confound the audience viewing his work. One might also be terribly wrong.

As he approached the undead, which moaned and extended a pallid and slightly rotting limb in an attempt to grab for the dandy, the youth pulled the hatchet from its place and gave it a flourishing toss into the air before neatly bringing down one handed into the extended limb, which was cleanly rented from the rest of the zombie.

Dropping the gun gracefully the dandy swung again in a dainty arch, blade sliding cleanly into flesh as the creature collapsed to the ground. Pulling back to avoid any splashing the man pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and used it to wipe the blade of the hatchet clean before tucking it back into place. Folding the handkerchief, the dandy studied the blood as it oozed from the head wound. Old blood, it seemed to be, which had the youth thinking that the creature he had killed had actually been dead already. There had been several arguments on the subject between the remaining living but there was nothing more telling than the colour and thickness of blood as it flowed. Though he appeared kind and gentle at first glance, the youth had a great deal of experience with blood. Before the plague, he had operated quite the crime ring. Still, he was well liked among the masses and handled himself with admirable manners. He was called Montparnasse.

Now Montparnasse was well liked, known for his excellent manners and charisma. He was the type to be perpetually surrounded by doting souls. In fact, he had quite the gang, having drawn the attentions of a number of hellions. Together, four heads of the gang, which had come to be called the Patron-Minette, had terrorized the wealthy of Paris even before this madness had ensued.

Another gang, far less organized and headed by a man with much less panache, was that which followed one Monsieur Thenardier. It was not certain what his first name was, as he had worn several. In short, this was a con artist, a man entirely driven by greed. His own group of ruffians was far less organized than the Patron-Minette, preferring more direct scams and pickpocketing of the wealthy.

It should be said that there were those who would identify Monsieur Thenardier as more than the villainous crook he was. For there was a time when the man had served his country, as was expected of a good Christian Frenchman. Having made it so far as sergeant in the Napoleonic Wars, there were those who would even go so far as to call him ‘hero’. They, of course, would be idealists with little concept of ulterior motives. Perspective was everything.

What _is_ notable and entirely undisputed is that Thenardier had quite the family, all of whom he neglected unless they could be used as means to an end. There was very little love lost betwixt he and his wife, but it did not seem to hamper their propensity towards procreation. From this union had sprung one gambine, Eponine Thenardier, as well as a younger sister, Azelma. Behind her came a little boy who had been no more than seven, who was called Gavroche, and behind him were two more still, little boys who clung to their hateful mother’s skirts unless the woman could press them off to Azelma. Eponine and Gavroche had taken advantage of their parents’ negligence, as previously encountered, while the others lingered with their sires for one reason or another.

Thenardier’s greed had not faded in the face of this new threat to Paris. If anything, the high casualty rates had only served him as he had followed behind, picking up what he could from the dearly departed and newly risen bourgeois. Of course, he also recognized that supplies dwindled with each passing day. He had mouths to feed and ends to attain. One could wallow in misfortune or one could use it. Thenardier would call himself pragmatic in that he would always favour the latter.

The Patron-Minette and Thenardier’s gang had always been well aware of one another but their inclinations to work together had varied on a case-to-case basis. If benefit could be gleaned for both, then the groups would join. If not, they stayed out of each other’s way apart from one shared thief, who moved seamlessly between both groups as his fancy was struck. This was Brujon, who had served time in a French prison for his petty theft. The place seemed to have made him dense. As he was almost entirely vacant, both Thenardier and the Patron-Minette were unbothered by his lingering presence.

Now, benefit was to be had in an alliance.

In the face of dwindling supplies more were needed. And the larger the group the easier it was to take what was required.

 It was entirely by accident that Montparnasse had come to hear of the Musain. One of the heads of the Patron-Minette, Claquesous, had caught sight of the little bourgeois boy with the violin stumbling back to another one late night in Paris. The other had been of the working class, if the callouses on his fingers and the rough accent were any indication. The Devil of the Night had been prepared to slink forward and take the supplies the two carried, when the one of the working class had addressed the bourgeois with the violin sharply, indicating that they should get back. Back was a curious word, Claquesous had thought. Thus, he had remained in the shadows, as was his specialty, trailing the two to the Café Musain. It had taken some effort, as the doors and windows were boarded and the entrances barricaded, but Claquesous had come to the understanding that there was quite a great number inside, and that supplies were at least enough to where merry music had spilled from under the boarded windows. If people were desperate, there was no time for merriment. Claquesous knew this well. Thus, he had taken this new information and returned to the other heads of the Patron-Minette.

Now, the only reason that the four—Montparnasse, Claquesous, and two others—had not simply attempted to take the Musain of their own accord was because, at least among three of the heads, there was a measure of intelligence there. They had the understanding that four men and their meager gang could not take the number holed up in the Musain. For it had sounded like quite the assembly. Thus, the four had made the decision to turn to Thenardier, who lacked the finesse but held a fair number of his own. Combined, the force should be great enough.

Now, the four heads of the Patron-Minette made their way to a home where Thenardier had taken up residence. After Montaparnasse’s merry jaunt to his comrades, Claquesous, clad in a mask to conceal his features, as was his preference in the daytime hours, fell into step with the dandy, who was the most charismatic of the four and thus the figurehead. On Montparnasse’s other side came Babet, who was a self-proclaimed _touche-a-tout_ with a proclivity toward apathy—he was the sort to know that he had once had a wife and children, but was undisturbed by the understanding that he had ‘misplaced’ them the way one might misplace a handkerchief. Finally, beside Babet, came Gueulemer, a regular behemoth of a man with a chest like rock and a head entirely too small for his form. Gueulemer was very much the muscle of the group, having very little by way of intelligence. He was the Goliath who had yet to be bested by any David, and he thought nothing of it.  As they four walked abreast, Thenardier stood expectantly at the door of his self-proclaimed residence, gesturing the men inside with a flourish.

It was there that the plan was made: amidst petty thieves, gambins, Thenardier and his wife, and the four, that the Musain was to be taken. This plan in place, they would wait until the right time to implement it.

***

The next time Grantaire awoke, his position was entirely different from when he had gone to sleep. As a matter of fact, his abject horror as his new sleeping arrangement was supplemented by the understanding that his bedmate might wake to find them this way. For Grantaire had next to no qualms in holding Enjolras to him, the golden head pillowed on Grantaire’s broad chest, but he hardly thought that Enjolras would feel the same. And yet, Grantaire could not bring himself to move, not when he had considered this very scenario so many times in the past.

His arm held the sleeping Apollo securely to him, the warmth of the other man seeping through Grantaire’s clothes and heating him as well. It was as if Enjolras, Grantaire’s sun, lived up to this private regard with his very being, for Grantaire doubted he could much help the temperature of his body. It wasn’t entirely expected, however, as Grantaire also regarded the other as a man of marble, and there was nothing warm about living stone. And yet, Enjolras disproved this notion easily.

If Grantaire were to move, he could untangle himself from Apollo’s grip, which curled around his own waist and pillowed Enjolras’ head—the taller man had entirely abandoned pillows in his sleep in favour of pressing close and laying half of his body across Grantaire. However, the artist had no desire whatsoever to do this, his eyes taking in the pretty features resting unabashedly facing him, golden hair having almost entirely fallen from a simple black ribbon to stain Grantaire’s white shirt with sunshine. Grantaire had awoken with his free hand curled in the glorious locks. Now, the cynic swallowed.

Fate, it would seem, had a cruel sense of humour, as the door to the little room the two men had shared burst open, revealing one Courfeyrac with hair askew and countenance still merry despite the circumstances. “Grantaire, get up you lazy _Andouille_. Enjolras has— Oh.” The jokester’s statement, whatever it was, halted in its formation at the sight of the fearless leader of the Amis curled around the cynic. “Apparently not.”

Grantaire swallowed, watching the shock on Courfeyrac’s face evolve into a smirk. “Not a word, Courfeyrac,” he choked out.

The other, to his credit, said nothing, sidling into the room and violently grabbing the blankets to whip them off the bed. The motion was enough to have Enjolras jerking awake, sitting up in fright as Courfeyrac dissolved into raucous laughter. “Oh! My dear Grantaire,” he taunted. “Why have I been denied the gentle safety of your embrace?”

Enjolras fixed his friend with the glare of glares, turning to Grantaire, who was getting to his feet in embarrassment. “Find your age, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras snapped. “It was a sharing of a bed. Nothing more.”

“If my eyes had not seen it falsified, I might have believed that it never could happen!” Courfeyrac singsong-ed.

Rising from the tangle of remaining sheets, Enjolras rolled his eyes, undoing his hair to secure it again in the black ribbon that had clung dutifully to delicate strands. At the ruckus, the concerned face of Combeferre appeared behind Courfeyrac, followed by that of Jehan. It was entirely evident the state in which Grantaire and Enjolras had been found—or caught, as Grantaire saw it, for it seemed as if he had somehow sinned in lying chastely beside Apollo all night. More heads appeared, crowding around as Enjolras serenely tucked his tussled shirt and secured his ascot, which had remained somehow immaculate throughout these months’ trials. “I fail to see anything of interest here,” he commented to the ogling assembly.

“You would,” called Bahorel, amused.

Grantaire was much less fluid in his redressing. Nothing had occurred between the two men. Nothing at all. He should not feel like a criminal caught red-handed, but his staring friends perpetuated in him just that.

Pulling on his waistcoat and crimson coat, Enjolras shook his head, settling delicately on the edge of the bed to reach for his boots. “I was making a point.”

Fingers froze on the tarnished buttons of Grantaire’s green waistcoat. He knew that, and had known it when Enjolras had joined him in the bed. However, the reminder still jostled him. It shattered any and all petty and fleeting illusions he had of Enjolras lying in bed with him because of _him_.

“What point is that?” Courfeyrac wanted to know. “Because I can think of a few points, but they wouldn’t necessarily be appropriate to mention in the present company.” His eyes turned toward Cosette, who was blushing furiously behind Marius at the state of a still-mostly-undressed Grantaire.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “You would go to such lascivious things.”

“Of course, ‘Jolras. ‘Tis within my very nature.” Courfeyrac gave a flourishing bow as Enjolras shoved past him, the tittering silencing as the blonde gave a chilling look.

“Perhaps you might consider the times we face? Then the glory of maturity might elect to grace you. At long last.” With that, he made his way down the stairs.

Grantaire swallowed, ignoring the expressions as they turned to him. He had never been particularly subtle, he knew, but the others had dutifully feigned ignorance at the appropriate moments. This was an entirely new circumstance. Evidently, the very possibility that Enjolras might find himself in a physical situation with Grantaire was repugnant to the once-leader. Of course Grantaire could understand this. He was not anyone of whom to be proud. He was ugly, a drunk, and had nothing to contribute. Of course Apollo would not stoop to a lowly Icarus. Grantaire knew that. He understood and it should not feel jaded in the realization of a truth he had already acknowledged.

Of course, this did not change the tightness in his stomach as he continued to ignore the others.

He needed a drink.

 


End file.
